


none of us could sleep

by sarahyyy



Series: Functional Heartburn [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, oh god hahaha there is so much foreshadowing in this one, the grey's au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Musichetta says, grinning. “And I don’t think Grantaire would like it if I killed you, don’t you think?”</p><p>“I don’t think so,” Enjolras says in what Grantaire assumes that he thinks is a whisper. It really isn’t. “I think he likes me. I think he’ll be sad if I died. I would be if he did. He’s my Grantaire.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	none of us could sleep

Enjolras is slumped against the bar top, sipping at some fruity-looking concoction, when Grantaire arrives at the Musain. Musichetta is smiling at him, shaking her head fondly, and Grantaire gets an idea of how drunk Enjolras actually is when Musichetta pats Enjolras on the head and he just leans into the touch, grinning dopily at her.

Grantaire stands by the door, just observing for a moment, wondering if coming here was a bad idea, wondering if he should’ve called Combeferre instead. They aren’t in a relationship, and Grantaire doesn't need to feel obliged to take care of Enjolras when he’s drunk. He shouldn’t be here; he’ll only give Enjolras the wrong idea. 

He makes a move to turn and leave, but before he can, Enjolras turns over and catches sigh of him. Grantaire watches the smile on Enjolras’ face blossom and grow, and oh, he can’t leave _now_ , can he? He makes his way to Enjolras instead. 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras says happily, when Grantaire comes into earshot, reaching out for him, looping his arms around Grantaire’s neck when he gets close enough for Enjolras to. “You came!” he says, sounding awed, as if he can’t believe that Grantaire showed up. 

Enjolras turns to address the man sitting by him, “This is Grantaire, he’s my-” He falters for a moment, brows furrowed as he searches for a word. Grantaire mirrors his frown. Colleague? Boyfriend? Lover? Grantaire doesn’t know what they are, and he doesn’t know if he wants Enjolras to stick a label on them. “He’s my Grantaire,” Enjolras settles on, and turns back to Grantaire. “You came,” he says again, voice hushed. 

“Musichetta called,” Grantaire says, smiling in spite of himself. “You don’t say no to Musichetta.”

“Damn right you don’t,” Musichetta says from behind the counter, smiling at them indulgently. She passes Enjolras’ keys to Grantaire. “He’s had a lot to drink. _A lot_ ,” she tells him. “And he hasn’t been able to stop talking about you for the past hour.”

“‘chetta!” Enjolras says from where he’s tucked against Grantaire. “This is-”

“Grantaire,” Musichetta finishes for him. “He’s your Grantaire. I know.”

Enjolras’ eyes are wide when he turns to look at Grantaire. “How did she know that?” He turns back to Musichetta. “Are you magic?”

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Musichetta says, grinning. “And I don’t think Grantaire would like it if I killed you, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think so,” Enjolras says in what Grantaire assumes that he thinks is a whisper. It really isn’t. “I think he likes me. I think he’ll be sad if I died. I would be if he did. He’s my Grantaire.”

Musichetta gives Grantaire a shit-eating grin over Enjolras’ head. “Keeper,” she mouths at him, and he rolls his eyes at her because Joly and Bossuet must’ve been telling her stories again. He really need to talk to them about what ‘ _just between us_ ’ means to them.

“Come on, Enjolras, you’re really drunk,” Grantaire says, and then pauses, because he has to try, even if he’s already here. “Do you want me to call Combeferre to take you home?”

Enjolras makes a face at that and then clings onto Grantaire, buries his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck. “I don’t want Combeferre to take me home,” he whines, breath hot against Grantaire’s skin, fingers digging deeply into his hip. “I want you to take me home. I only want to go home with you.” 

“Okay,” Grantaire says, and suppresses his shiver when Enjolras starts pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck, wet and sloppy. He tightens his grip on Enjolras’ arm. “Not here, not now, Enjolras.”

Enjolras reluctantly pulls away, but loops his arm around Grantaire’s. “Are you taking me home?” he asks, and Grantaire nods, even though he should really just put Enjolras in a cab. 

—

Enjolras spends half the journey to his apartment humming La Marseillaise, grinning happily when it makes Grantaire snort, and the other half dozing against the window, snoring lightly. Grantaire should not find him endearing, but he does, and isn’t that just fantastic? He’s supposed to be keeping whatever feelings he has for Enjolras buried as deeply as he can, but it isn’t working now, because Enjolras was drunk and the first person he had Musichetta call was him. 

That should be mean something.

Grantaire doesn’t know if he wants it to mean something, or if he wants to know what it means. Probably not, for his sanity’s sake.

He shakes Enjolras gently awake when they reach his apartment. “Hey,” he says, feeling infinitely fond of Enjolras when he slowly blinks himself to wakefulness. “We’re here. Do you want me to take you up?”

Enjolras nods. “Please.”

He tells himself that this night doesn’t count, and it’s okay to care for Enjolras. Enjolras is wasted, and he probably won’t remember anything tomorrow. He lets Enjolras lean against him, arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed to his neck, on the elevator ride up. He lets Enjolras clumsily lace their fingers together when he has to pull away when they get off on Enjolras’ floor. He fishes Enjolras’ keys out of Enjolras’ back pocket, Enjolras giggling about how _“You touched my butt.”_ , and gets his front door open.

He means to leave after getting Enjolras into his apartment, but Enjolras grabs him by the wrist and tugs him in the direction of what appears to be his bedroom. He presses Grantaire against the wall once they’re in his room, and kisses him, sloppy kisses that are fast and have too much tongue and too much teeth. Grantaire kisses back, because it’s Enjolras, and he’s always going to kiss him back, cups the back of his neck, presses Enjolras closer to him, taking control of the kiss, turning the kiss into something slower, deeper, more careful. 

Enjolras moans when Grantaire pulls back, and lists forward, chasing for more.

“You’re drunk, E,” Grantaire tells him, and slowly starts to unbutton Enjolras’ shirt. “You’re big on consent. We aren’t doing anything while you’re drunk.”

“I consent,” Enjolras says with a pout even as he shimmies out of his trousers. “You know I consent. I always consent when it’s you.”

Grantaire gives him a wry grin. “I heard you yelling at that boy in the ER the other day about blanket consent not being a thing,” he reminds Enjolras. “Go to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Enjolras doesn’t let go of Grantaire’s hand. “Stay the night,” he says, pressing himself close against Grantaire again, running a hand down Grantaire’s chest. “Stay the night, please? I won’t be drunk tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll be hungover,” Grantaire says, just so he doesn’t have to answer Enjolras. He can’t let himself answer Enjolras; he already knows what his answer is going to be. “It’ll be awful.”

“It’ll be less awful with you around,” Enjolras tells him, sincere, even though he can’t know, because he’s never spent a morning with Grantaire before, drunk or sober, and it’s a horrible idea, Grantaire shouldn’t even be considering it. “Please stay, R.”

Grantaire swallows. 

Enjolras presses a soft kiss to his throat. 

“Yeah, okay,” Grantaire says, even though the right thing to do would be to tell Enjolras that this isn’t allowed. 

He strips his shirt and pants off quickly and gets into bed with Enjolras, tries not to overthink it, because Enjolras feels warm and soft and comfortable and _good_ , and it’s been a long time since Grantaire’s allowed himself to have anything good, but Enjolras rolls over, nuzzles into Grantaire’s neck, and mumbles _I love you_ , and it’s completely impossible for him not to think about what a bad idea this is. 

He knew from the beginning that it was a bad idea, that he wouldn’t be able to have Enjolras and be casual about it, and keep _feelings_ out of it, but he’d lied to himself, insisted that he could manage it, could keep himself objective. He hasn’t managed that, not since from the start. 

He never stood a chance; he doomed himself from the start.

Enjolras makes a sleepy noise and curls into him, and Grantaire can’t help but to press a kiss to his brow, card his fingers softly through Enjolras’ hair, heart swelling when Enjolras lips curl up at the corners slightly and his breathing begins to slowly even out. 

He waits till he knows for sure that Enjolras is asleep before he dares to try the words out. “Your Grantaire,” he whispers, and swallows because the words sound right. “Your Grantaire,” he says again, and shuts his eyes tightly and wills for sleep to overtake him.

—

He wakes up to soft lips pressing kisses against his jaw, trailing down to his neck, sucking lightly, and clever fingers running down his sides, slow and teasing. It’s one of the better awakenings he’s had in a really long time. 

“G’morning,” he manages to mumble, and then sighs when Enjolras presses his lips to Grantaire’s, kissing him chastely. He lets himself bask in the warmth of Enjolras’ body covering his, trailing his fingers down Enjolras’ back, revelling in the soft sighs Enjolras lets out, before his eyes snap open, belatedly remembering where he is. He’s with Enjolras, at Enjolras’ apartment, in Enjolras’ bed, after spending the night here. 

This isn’t allowed. 

“I can’t stay,” he tells Enjolras, who has started to nose at his shoulder happily, and starts to extricate himself from Enjolras’ arms.

“Just a bit longer,” Enjolras mumbles, and presses his face to Grantaire’s neck, mouths at the bruise blossoming there. His arms tighten around Grantaire, and Grantaire relaxes into his touch and barely suppresses his urge to shiver and arch up against Enjolras. 

“I really need to go,” he says instead of rolling them over and kisses Enjolras like he wants to.

“Courf owes me a favour,” Enjolras says, eyes shut languidly, and his arms tighten minutely around Grantaire. “I can get him to cover your shift for you. We can stay in bed today. It’ll be great.”

Grantaire wants to say yes, and he should say yes, he really should, because it’s what he wants and it’s what Enjolras wants, but he twists away from Enjolras, almost jabbing an elbow into Enjolras’ stomach as he does, and Enjolras’ eyes finally snap open.

“I can’t stay,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras stares at him. “Can’t or _won’t_?” 

“Does it matter?” Grantaire asks, sitting up in bed. 

“Does it not matter?” Enjolras counters his question with.

Grantaire shrugs. “Can’t,” he says finally. Then, because he never knows when to shut up, “Won’t. Both, I suppose.”

“So it’s okay for us to fuck in the on-call room, but not okay if we’re doing it in my bed?” Enjolras asks. “It’s all just sex to you, isn’t it? What does it even matter where we’re doing it?”

“It’s not about the location,” Grantaire snaps, because it isn’t, and Enjolras knows just as much. “I won’t have a problem having sex with you in your bed if I knew it was just sex to you. But it isn’t, it never is with you.” He takes a deep breath. “This is a relationship thing.”

“I _want_ a relationship with you,” Enjolras says, juts his chin out defiantly, and oh, this is him at his limit, Grantaire thinks. Grantaire’s said no so many times, and Enjolras has always accepted it, but this is his limit. 

“I have to go,” Grantaire says, and gets off Enjolras’ bed, rooting around for his clothes. 

“I want a relationship with you,” Enjolras repeats, because he’s never known when to give up too. “I love you,” he says, and it still bowls Grantaire over, even though it isn’t the first time Enjolras has said it. “I am trying to be patient, and I know you need time to accept that I’m not going anywhere, and I’m trying, but I’m the _only one_ trying, and it gets frustrating, and I get tired of being the only one who wants to try. I can’t keep doing this.”

Grantaire draws in a sharp breath even though it shouldn’t affect him that Enjolras is saying what he is saying. He’s been pushing Enjolras away ever since Enjolras told him that he was in love with him; he knows Enjolras wouldn’t have waited forever for him to sort out his issues. 

Enjolras stares at him, eyes glassy, and Grantaire swallows and keeps his mouth shut, because otherwise, he would be saying all manner of stupid things that would only end up getting him into more trouble. 

“Are you not going to say anything?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire stares stonily ahead.

“Are you even trying?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire hates the way his voice cracks in the middle. “Do you even want to try? Do you even want _me_?” 

_Yes_ , Grantaire thinks, but doesn’t allow himself to verbalise it. 

Enjolras blinks and Grantaire watches in silent horror as tears start to fall from Enjolras’ eyes. He’s made Enjolras cry. “Do I even mean anything to you, R?” Enjolras asks quietly.

 _More than you know_ , Grantaire thinks. 

He picks up his clothes and says, “I can’t stay.”

Enjolras lets him go.

**Author's Note:**

> *laughs because wow foreshadowing* 
> 
> I'm [here on tumblr](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


End file.
